To an old poet | Borges

∞ Author, 1960

The Maker

To an old poet

You walk through the wilderness of Castile[1].

And turn a blind eye. A esoteric song

Paul's poems keep you engrossed

And I hardly noticed the yellow one

Sunset. The dim light is confused

And hovering at the end of the East

The scarlet moon with mockery on its face

Maybe it's the mirror of heaven's wrath.

You raise your eyes and look at it. A paragraph

Memories that once belonged to you open

And eclipsed. You will have a pale head

Hanging down, continuing to take a sad step,

But I don't remember the verse you wrote:

His epitaph is the blood-red moon. [2]

Translation Notes:

[1] Castilla, a region of central Spain.

[2] Crevieto, The Immortal Memory of Don Pedro Shiron, Count of Osuna.

……

—Translated by Borges | Chen Dongbiao

—Reading and Rereading—

To an old poet

You walk through the countryside of Castile

and you hardly see it. An intricate

John's verse is your care

and you barely noticed the yellow one

sunset. The vague delirious light

and at the eastern end it expands

that moon of derision and scarlet

which is perhaps the mirror of Wrath.

You raise your eyes and look at her. One

memory of something that was yours begins

and shuts down. The pale head

you go down and keep walking sad,

without remembering the verse you wrote:

And his epitaph the bloody moon.

Chen Dongbiao translation and others

Caption: Borges, 1975

By Richard Avedon Via Christie's